


Year of the Snake

by Poinsettia



Series: Seven Years [2]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Alternate Ending, Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 07:53:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8048386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poinsettia/pseuds/Poinsettia
Summary: Seven Years is a series of vignettes that aims to show the development of Wufei and Treize's relationship during the first seven years following the end of the war, with Treize as the winner. Each vignette is titled according to a year of the Chinese calendar.





	Year of the Snake

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The _Gundam Wing_ anime series is property of H. Yatate, Y. Tomino  & Bandai. No money is being made out if this work.

This is the fourth house in a year. Kushrenada not only seems unwilling to disclose my location to me, but he is also paranoid enough to continuously change my place of residence, as though he feared that if I found out where he keeps me ‘safe’, I’d use the information to escape. 

Bastard. 

Hasn’t he already realized that I can’t escape? Where could I go, when the whole world belongs to him?

Only death could free me now, and he has even taken that away from me.

I raise a hand and touch the warm surface of the window. It’s a lovely place, my new room, all sunlight and velvet, with a wide view of the surrounding forest. A gilded cage if there ever was one.

A month ago, I remember one of the doctors telling Khushrenada that a change in scenery would do me “a heap of good.” He also said other things, but I can’t remember them. I was too drugged to focus properly on what was happening around me. On those days, my world was reduced to an endless blur of sound and color—but at least it stopped me from thinking. Which, I suppose, was the reason why they kept me like that: They didn’t want me to think. 

Good. I didn’t want to do it either.

I don’t want to think. I don’t want to feel. I don’t want to—

I pull my hand back from the window to stare at it. Lately, I have caught myself doing that a lot: staring at my hands. My grandmother used to read the future of men by looking at their hands. I once asked her to tell me mine, so she took my hand between hers and carefully studied the lines crossing my palm. After a while, she just smiled and told me to go play with my cousins. Eleven years later, I still wonder what it was that she saw that day and think on what she would say if she could see the lines that I have recently acquired.

There is, for example, the line which runs from my left elbow down to my wrist. It’s the newest one, still tenderly red. I’m proud of it. The heap-of-good doctor said it would never completely fade, just as the line that crosses from one side of my neck to the other will not. Sometimes, I purposely leave open the collar of my tunics for Treize to see it. I love to see the look on his face on such occasions.

My favorites, though, are the dozen or so small white lines that cover my chest, thighs and arms. I like them because there’s nothing he can do against them. He can, of course, yell, plead, threaten, ask his doctors to patch me up; but in the end, no matter what he does, he can’t stop the lines. I yet hold some power over him.

In an almost casual gesture I close my right hand into a fist and strike it hard against the window. It doesn’t shatter. Should have expected that after the last incident. Still, this small inconvenience doesn’t stop me. Sooner or later the window will yield, just like I did.

So I hit the window again…

…and again…

…and again, and again, and again, and again, and again.

Until it breaks. 

Until I break. 

Until I feel numb with hate, because I never imagined that one could hate so much.

“That’s enough, Dragon.”

A strong, elegant hand suddenly covers my bloodied fist, stopping me. I turn around and find myself looking up into a pale face, blue eyes bright with some indefinable emotion. For a second, I stupidly hope that emotion is hate. At least then the feeling would be mutual. 

Khushrenada makes me sit on the bed and goes to call for medical assistance. While we wait, he crouches in front of me and kisses my uninjured hand. 

“When will you stop this folly, Wufei?” he asks me in a whisper.

Never.

But never is too long a time, and sooner or later, everything yields.

Tired, I close my eyes.


End file.
